


Nothing Like the Sun

by Miss_Poki



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, Female Harry, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-11-25 04:20:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Poki/pseuds/Miss_Poki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1999 Dean Winchester picked up a girl at a bar: a girl with dark hair, green eyes, and a hippie friend. Nothing will ever be the same again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Non-explicit and slightly idealized sex.

September 1999.

"I'm still not sure about this, Luna," she said. She had an accent, a low and polite rounding of each of her vowels: English. Something warm pooled in the pit of Dean's stomach. He cradled his beer closer and watched the girls from the corner of his eye.

They sat at the bar, long, bare legs curved down the barstools and touching at the knees. One of them was a pale blonde thing with lengths of hippie hair and radishes for earrings. Her drink had a small umbrella in it. Dean dismissed her; flower children made him uncomfortable.

"Harry," Luna -the hippie girl, said. She flashed her friend an easy smile and clinked their glasses together. "Everything will be fine."

Her friend, Harry, nodded and took a sip from her glass. Whisky on the rocks, Dean noticed. His hand tightened around his beer and felt an odd mix of embarrassment and admiration; this 'Harry' girl seemed hardcore. He couldn't see her face from his seat, but he let his eyes roam down the smooth skin of her cheek, the straight line of her pale neck. She had thin arms and an athlete's waist. A pixie-cut tickled the top of her ears. Not exactly his type, but she would do.

"You'll love it here," Luna was saying. She twirled her hair around her finger. "America has a lot to offer -and Salem isn't much different from the community in London."

"I suppose," Harry said, petulantly. She sighed. "No memories, though." 

"You can always come back," Luna said.   

Harry downed her drink, slamming the glass down on the counter. "No. I was the one who wanted to leave in the first place." She flagged the bartender down and ordered two tequila shots, voice low and husky and going straight to Dean's groin. "I'm just a tad scared, that's all. But I haven't really given America a chance; I've yet to experience everything it's got to offer."

Dean took her words as a sign and sidled over to the bar. Alcohol buzzed pleasantly around his brain. If Harry wanted to 'experience' the USA, Dean would try his damnedest. He chugged down his beer, and flashed his fake ID at the bartender for another drink. Something manlier, like bourbon. From his new vantage point he could see Harry's face clearly. She had elfin features: a delicate nose, high cheekbones and green eyes framed by clunky glasses. No make-up. The artsy-type, if it weren't for the calluses on her fingers and the small, barely visible scars on her arms and legs. His father had scars like that –Hell- _Dean_ had scars like that. Something like kinship flared within him.

He fixed his eyes on her face and waited for her to notice him. When her eyes flickered upward he caught them in his gaze, smiling his most charming smile. She smiled back tentatively and that was all the prompting he needed. Without breaking eye contact, he moved down the bar.

"Hi," he said, making sure to make eye contact with both girls; he wasn't enough of a dick to outright ignore someone, though he made his preference clear. "I overheard your accents -English, right?" At their nod he gave a mock bow. "Then as an American, it is my duty to inquire after your stay."

Luna giggled and looked at him with dazed eyes. He wondered if she was high. "Luna Lovegood," she said, extending her hand. "I'm finding your country lovely, Mr. American."

Harry gave a low chuckle, shaking his hand after Luna. She had a firm, calloused grip, just like he'd expected.  "Well, I'm still undecided," she said. Her lips glistening and swollen from tequila.

"Undecided?" He asked, looking mock-affronted. "Well, I guess I'll have to convince you then."

"Do your worst, Mr. American," she said, throaty voice teasing.

Dean almost felt his breath catch. "Dean Winchester," he said.

He was awarded with a slow, lazy smile. "Harry Potter."

Dean's night got infinitely better after that.

 

\---          

They started with a round of tequila shots.

Luna's face scrunched up when she drank. "I don't think I like those," she said, and stuck with her frilly cocktail for the rest of the night. Harry, instead, drank like a pro: licking and swallowing and sucking like she didn't give a damn. By round three, Dean felt reluctantly impressed with her tolerance. She'd had somewhere along five shots and a glass of whisky, but her cheeks were pale and her hands steady. The only indication that she'd had anything was the twinkle in her eyes and the curve of her savage grin.

In between shots, Harry and Luna told him about the sweltering Massachusetts summer: the swamps and the flies and the general heat. Luna compared it to Rome. Harry had shaken her head, claiming Rome was dusty and old and oppressive. They'd gone on a eurotrip apparently, that very summer, through France, Spain and Italy. Dean felt small spark of jealousy in his chest. It wasn't likely he'd ever leave the US; he didn't even have a passport. As if she'd heard his thoughts, Harry told him about the skies in Europe: the same blue-and-fluff American sky. She told him about the people, the food, the small olive trees on the Spanish countryside and the pigeon infestation in Venice. Half-way through, he'd sidled closer to her, trailing his fingers up her silky thigh. She'd blushed, and Dean had felt a surge of alcohol-induced affection. He wanted to kiss her, but she'd turned away, ordering round four.

Twirling her cocktail's umbrella, Luna asked him what he did for a living. He told them a modified version of what he told every girl: he worked as a temporary mechanic down the street, but usually he traveled around with his dad for work -he liked keeping in touch with his little brother, Sam, who was still in school.

The two girls melted, just like he knew they would. He loved Sammy more than anything, but he wasn't above using the kid to get laid.

"What about you?" He asked, mouth close to Harry's neck. She shivered against him.

"Luna is going to be a journalist," She said, breathless.

"Oh yes." Luna's radishes swung as she nodded. "I'm very interested in animals -and aliens. I've heard much about aliens here in America."

Dean tried his best to appear interested, or at least not scornful. But aliens, really?

Harry laughed. "Luna, aliens aren't real." She turned her face; the tip of his nose touched her smooth cheek. From his vantage point he could see down her shirt, the curved valley of her breasts and the edges of a lacy bra. He swallowed thickly.

"I'm not quite sure what to do with my life," Harry was saying. She smiled pensively. "I’ve started training to be a h- doctor, but I dunno if that’s what I want to do. I want to do something good for the world."

_Don't we all_? "You could go for law-enforcement," he said.

She was shaking her head before he finished. "No, nothing violent. I just... want to help the people left behind."      

His hand bumped against one of the scars on her arm, a thin, wicked line on her forearm. He thought he understood. "How about another round?" He breathed in her ear.

Harry smiled.

 

\---

Luna left around round six, after extracting a swear from Dean to take Harry home safely. By then he'd been on his way to being comfortably sloshed -Harry's words, not his. He half-leaned, half-stood by the bar, trailing his fingers down her bare arm. She talked about her boarding school and all the good times she'd had with her friends Ron and Hermione. She spoke about them like they were angels, the only things that had kept her alive. He wondered distantly what happened to them.

"They died," she said, as if hearing his thoughts. Her voice was quiet and mournful, her fist gripping the material of her skirt. "A bit of a freak accident actually -some time ago." She shrugged looking lost and depressed. "My parents died like that too, when I was young."

He eyed the tequila stains on the counter. Freak accidents were almost Winchester specialty; he thought about Sammy's weight in his arms as he carried him out of their burning home, their mother's screams in the background.

"My mom died in a fire when I was four," Dean blurted out. He thought it would feel weird, telling a stranger something so personal, but Harry simply looked sad. A slender hand wearing a black ring rested on his chest. She didn't offer needless platitudes.     

The jukebox in the corner played a sappy Elton John song. They remained silent, connected physically by his hand on her knee and her drooping hand on his chest. All traces of lust had fled his system, although the alcohol still made everything pleasantly fuzzy. The digital clock in the corner shone _11:00_ ; he regretted not making a move earlier. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and wished he could spend the night with her, but he had to take Sammy to school in the morning and he had work after that.

"Come on, let's get you home," he said, helping her off the barstool.

"You don't have to," she said, tilting her head up to look at him. She seemed maddeningly sober. "I live quite far away."

"How far away, like England far away?" He took out his wallet, prepared to slap down most of last-week's paycheck on the counter.

Harry stopped him with a gentle hand. "I've it covered." She nodded at the bartender and flicked him some bills. Dean tried to protest -his dad taught him better than to let a girl pay- but she'd have none of it.

"I can't let you pay, Dean, we drank more than you did," she said, leading him towards the entrance. Her gait was a little wobbly, and she steadied herself with Dean's arm. Outside, the air was surprisingly warm for late-September, the sky overhead a clear, dark blue, with the yellowing moon hanging high. A light breeze ruffled the edges of Harry's skirt.

"Thanks --for the drinks," he said, stubbornly keeping an arm around her waist. Harry didn't seem to mind. "So how far do you live?"

"About an hour away, towards the outskirts." She suddenly laughed, pressing against his chest, and he couldn't help but smile. "That sounds terribly suspicious, doesn't it? But you don't have to take me... I wouldn't like to inconvenience you." 

An hour was nothing compared to the days he'd spent riding his baby. "Dude, I promised," he said instead, "I can't just leave you here."

He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and herded her towards his car. The Impala looked like a masterpiece next to the rundown pick-ups and Corolla's in the parking lot; it shone black and smooth under the streetlight.

"This here's my baby," he said, sliding a hand over the hood. He'd opened the door for Harry on a whim and was rewarded with a blush and a flirty smirk. "She used to be Dad's."

"She's beautiful," Harry said, eyes following him as he sat on the bench seat and revved the engine. "You put so much effort into her."

"Yeah," he said, pulling out of the lot. _But doesn't everyone put effort into their home?_ He made an abortive motion towards the radio and instead pointed under the seat. "There's a box under -yeah that's it." He nodded at the box full of cassettes in her hands. "Music. Ladies choice." He winked.

"I-" She rifled through the cassettes before pulling one out at random. "Metallica?"

Dean looked horrified. "You've never heard of Metallica?"

"Uh, sorry." Tentatively, she put on the cassette; Enter Sandman flooded through the car. "I like it," Harry said, half-way through.

"Hell yeah, of course you do, they're awesome!" He said, "how could you never have heard of them?"   

She peeked at Dean from the cover of her dark bangs. "My aunt and uncle -well, I've never been very musical."

They fell silent, music filling up the air around them.

"I wanted to learn how to play guitar a couple of years back." Dean shrugged. "Dad wouldn't let me."

"Yeah, my aunt Petunia wasn't very encouraging either," she said, "I played the flute once, though. Sort of. Hag- the groundskeeper at school had a dog and the only way to put it to sleep was by playing music." 

"So you went to one of those weird new-age schools where they let you take care of animals and stuff?"

Harry snorted. "Er, well they _did_ have a...an animal caring class." She laughed outright at Dean's face. "It wasn't so bad -take a right here, yeah and then a left- but it wasn't 'new-age'. It was pretty conservative, actually, skirts and long socks enforced."  

"That's not so bad." He shot Harry's legs an appraising look. "I wouldn't have minded seeing you in uniform."

Harry blushed. She tucked the box back under the seat and fiddled with her skirt. Empty streets loomed before them, bathed in yellow streetlight and nighttime asphalt. He could smell the Impala's leather seats, dust and sweat and _home_ , and from the corner, Harry's spicy scent. She smelt like electricity, or carbonation or barely contained static. He felt the urge to fling holy water, but instead settled for mumbling, " _Christo_."

Harry didn't even twitch, though she frowned at him. "Pardon?"

"Nothing." He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. "If you just moved here how come you already have a house?"

"I inherited it," she said, as if inheriting something happened every day. "Figured it was probably better than paying for a flat or a hotel. I didn't know what to do with the house when the go- _lawyers_ told me about it. It's quite large, too -been in my Dad's family for a long time..." and then she was off, talking about the house, its size and the dirty cobwebs in the corners. Dean stopped listening at one point, reducing his answers to hums and nods. It wasn't her words he was concerned with, it was the sound of her voice, the soft ups and downs of her accent, the crinkle of leather whenever she shifted her body or her arms. He'd missed having someone in the car, someone who talked and filled up the empty space. Ever since Sammy had become a teenager he'd become a surly, glaring creature that slouched on the bench seat and constantly criticized Dean for blindly following their father. He spent his time researching colleges and wishing for a normal, grounded life: a life without hunting, or the Impala and with white picket fences. The image made Dean want to gag.

"You all right?" Calloused fingers threaded through his own, they gave a small squeeze before retracting.

"Yeah," he said, "I'm -sorry, I wasn't paying attention."

Harry smiled impishly. "I wasn't speaking for you to listen. It just seemed like you needed a human soundtrack."

Dean huffed a laugh. He caught Harry's gaze reflected on the windshield and held it for as long as he could. She looked so stupid in those bottle-round glasses, but she was interesting -different from his usual conquests. Once again he felt like kissing her.

"So, where's this house of yours?" He asked.

"Just around the corner." She pointed ahead, but all Dean could see was an empty street and dark woods.

"Yeah, just...here." She made a motion towards the left, at a gaping, black maw in the line of trees.

Dean hit the breaks and stared ahead. He clenched his hands around the wheel. Something chilling settled in his gut.

"Are you _sure_ this is the right place?" Dean said. He kept a gun in the glove compartment and a flask of holy water under the seat, both usually within easy reach. He'd never planned having a monster _in_ his car, though.

"Ah, bullocks. This looks suspicious again, doesn't it?" Harry smoothed a hand over the leather seat, chagrined. She picked up her purse. "You can drop me off here, it's quite all right."

She looked at him, and Dean thought she seemed disappointed. His awakened hunter instincts hadn't disappeared, but his suspiciousness had diminished. The only thing he was left with was adrenalin, the last dregs of a buzz and lust. Her eyes were a glittering golden green under the streetlight; the smell of ozone increased. His dad was issuing orders in the back of Dean's head, telling him to find a weapon, to eliminate any possible threats. Harry's lower lip still glistened with tequila-

-And Dean lunged, capturing her mouth with his.

She moaned against him, flinging her purse on the Impala's dashboard and fisting her hands in his shirt. She grappled against him as if she were desperate -deprived- of touch, as if no one had ever touched her before. He could taste the tequila on her tongue, smell it on her breath; her spicy scent buzzed under her skin. His hands slid under her shirt, smoothing up the planes of her soft back. She climbed onto his lap gracefully, knees and thighs pressing against his as she ground down on him. _Fuck, he wanted her._

She suddenly stopped, panting harshly on his lips.

"I wanted to-" He cut her off with a kiss. She complied for a second, before pulling away. "-invite you in for a nightcap."

He tensed, muscles coiled with renewed suspicion. "Nightcap?"   

 "A drink."

"Can't we stay here?" He said, clutching her waist.

"I- you're parked in the middle of the road."

"So?" He tried to mouth at her neck, but she pushed him off.

"Give me a flashlight. If you're that suspicious I'll lead the way through the forest," she said, eyes serious and steely. "On foot."

For a second she looked like a warrior. He kissed her again, quick and sloppy, his hands gripping tight enough to leave bruises.

"Fine." He dug around under the seat for the flashlight he and Sammy used when grave digging. Harry took it silently, not even batting an eyelash at the mud and dirt on the handle.

"Right." She stepped out and walked before the Impala with a straight and powerful gait. She acted nothing like the artsy girl he'd picked up rather, she seemed like a hunter. She gripped the flashlight like his dad would grip a covert gun, low but tight. Her free hand hovered over her upper thigh, ready to pull out a weapon from a holster. Suspicion itched at him.  

"Come on then," she waved him over.

Slowly, he started the car and followed her through the dark trees. The smooth road beneath eventually became the snap and crunch of gravel. The moon loomed high above, yellow like the front lights of the Impala and like Harry's unwavering flashlight.  It took them five minutes to get there, five minutes of itchy skin and sweat on the back of his neck, but eventually swirling ivory gates loomed before them. He caught sight of a glinting crest before Harry pushed the gateway open. She grinned at him from the shadows of her garden.

Behind her he saw a winding gravel driveway leading up a hill to the largest house -or was it a manor?- that he'd ever seen. It was a three story building, with iron-wrought balconies and climbing ivy. Soft, warm light shone from all the windows, spilling out onto the garden like a blanket.

"See?" Harry said, her hunter-like demeanor falling away. She opened door on the driver's side of the Impala and scrambled over his lap to the passenger seat. "Now how about that nightcap?"

Dean laughed. "All right. I'd say you've earned it."

He drove up the driveway and parked the Impala by the house's front steps. Up close, the building looked smaller, more like a home than a museum. Oddly, Dean found himself liking it. He let Harry lead him inside, past double-doors that should've been intimidating, but weren't. The entrance hall was done in shades of cream, with over-priced chandeliers and who knows what other fancy nonsense that would normally make him uncomfortable. But this house, no matter how overblown, was a home, _seemed_ profoundly like a home, almost as much as his Impala. Harry looked up at him, eyes searching for approval, like a kid who'd had nothing and suddenly received a doll. Dean winked.

"Not too shabby."    

Harry beamed. "Why thank you."

She led him deeper into the house, past a sprawling staircase and delicate rooms. The corridor walls were decked with rich paneled wood. In the distance, Dean thought he could hear a piano playing.

She colored when he asked her. "Yes. That's...uh don't worry about it."

"Uh-huh," he went to say more but stopped, staring at the painting of a blushing woman with fluffy, eighteenth century dress.

"What is it?" Harry asked. She glanced at the painting. "That's my great-great aunt I think."

"Did your great aunt just _move_?" Dean had seen some crazy shit in his time, moving paintings weren't one of them. He wondered if it was haunted; he'd stuffed a little flask of holy water in his pocket just in case. But he was certain that a murderous, haunted painting wouldn't wink at him as he passed.   

"'Course not, Dean." Harry took his hand and pulled him away. "Paintings don't move."

"Uh-huh."

She dragged him to the kitchen and plopped him down on a stool at the kitchen counter. The kitchen was large, larger that the motel room Dean and Sam were crashing at, and done in bright shades of brown and beige. It seemed clean and _ancient._ There wasn't even a fridge.

"It's a bit outdated," Harry was saying, as she rummaged through one of the cupboards.

"You don't have a fridge," he said, perplexed.

She laughed. "Not yet. I've got an icebox though. Now where is it? I was so sure I'd seen...AHA!" She pulled out a short, squat bottle. _Whisky_. "You must try this, Dean." With a little more rummaging, she placed a tumbler in front of him, filled with a measly thumb of amber.

"That's all you're serving me?" He swirled the liquid around, watching it catch the light.

"Try it." She served herself the same amount. "On three: one, two, bottoms up!"

When the whisky hit his throat Dean felt like he'd drunk fire, it burned all the way down from his tonsils to the top of his stomach. For a second he thought she'd poisoned him, but the burn was all alcohol. He coughed and spluttered like some wet behind the ears baby.

Harry was laughing again. "Horrid stuff, innit?"

"Holy - _fuck,_ what's in that?"

"No idea," she said, pouring him another thumb. "It's called Firewhisky. A small brewery in England makes it. They probably put dragon fire in it or something."

"Dragon fire," he said blandly. "So that's why you've got such high tolerance."

"I suppose." She took a sip of her own drink and moved closer, sitting on the stool beside him. Her bare leg skimmed the edges of his jeans. "I've been drinking this stuff since I was seventeen."

Dean downed his glass in one gulp, coughing and feeling the liquid burn. The alcohol traveled though his body, reawakening his previous buzz. His limbs felt weightless, his skin prickly and hyper-sensitive; he could feel the warmth of Harry's leg through his jeans. With a cheeky smile, he placed a hand on her thigh, fingertips teasing their way under her skirt. Her cheeks turned pink.

"W- would you like a tour?" She said, voice low and breathy.

He leaned forward, aligning their faces for a kiss. "How about a tour of your bedroom?"

"No beating around the bush, huh?"

Dean grinned. "Hopefully there'll be a lot of beating around the bush."

Harry blushed. "You're such a cliché."

"Hey, as long as it works," Dean said, then he kissed her.

She made that noise again, the small, desperate moan that she'd made earlier in the car. He grinned into the kiss, biting her lip and pushing his way inside with his tongue. His hands slowly inched up under her skirt, traveling on the inside of her parted thighs. Her grasping hands pulled him off his stool and together they stumbled out of the kitchen and into the corridor. Her skirt dropped somewhere around the foot of the stairs, when he'd pushed her up against the wall and buried his face in her neck, dropping kisses and licks that made her breathe out little gasps. She'd torn his leather jacket off with a yank and fisted her hands in his flannel shirt, pushing and pulling as if she wasn't sure whether she wanted him to move or just get naked right there. He'd tugged her skirt down, flinging it over his shoulder as she wrapped her legs around his waist. _Fuck_ , she fit perfectly. He could feel her warmth through his jeans.

"Move, Dean," she said, voice low and husky. She bit down on his ear. " _Now._ "

"Yes, Ma'am."

They tripped their way up the stairs, trading kisses and gropes and dropping clothing along the way. By the time they reached her bedroom, Dean's head was spinning; He could feel the alcohol traveling through his system. His skin was hot and he was straining in his jeans. He dropped Harry on the bed like a sack of flour, watching her body bounce on the mattress. Her bedroom was big -the master bedroom, he assumed- they'd gone through two double doors within a suite just to get there. He catalogued the exits with a trained glance before shucking off his boots and socks and crawling over her.

"What do you want?" Dean breathed, kissing her neck. She arched her body into his, back bending like a gymnast. His hands snuck behind her and unclasped her bra, pulling it away. A hand slid into his hair.

"What do _you_ want?" Harry asked, flipping them over. She sat on his crotch with an saucy grin and smoothed her hands down his chest, unbuttoning his jeans.

"Your mouth."

"Is that so?" She did quick work with his zipper and slid his jeans and boxers down his legs. Her hand came up, firm and warm, grasping him straight; her mouth was liquid wonderland: hot and slick and tight. She didn't even look coyly up at him in the porn star move girls liked to do; she was all business: hollow cheeks and wet slurping, sucking him until he was incoherent. When he came she swallowed him whole. His skin fizzed and peaked like a sizzling frying pan; he'd seen the white lights of pleasure. _Fuck this girl was awesome_.

She laid herself sideways on the bed, head propped on her hand. "Did you like it?"

"Heh." He swallowed and noticed for the first time that she was wearing pink panties. Figures he'd pick the one with the pink panties. "Why's your name Harry," he said abruptly. His mind had been blissfully blank, but he scrambled to soften the bluntness. "I mean, uh-"

"It's all right," she said, throwing him a smile. Her hand trailed up and down his torso, tickling tantalizingly close to his crotch. "My name's actually Henrietta -horrible, I know, but it's a family tradition and all that rot. Aunt Petunia started calling me Harry, probably because she wanted to give me gender issues." She shrugged with one shoulder. "It stuck."

He looked up at the ceiling, eyes tracing the swirls and the fancy pattern. "I was called Dean after my grandmother; Sam was called Sam after her husband. I just... never understood, if I'm the eldest why did I get the girl name?" 

Harry laughed. "That sort of sucks." She draped herself over him. "Now can we have sex?"

"Hell yeah." He flipped her over and slipped her underwear off. His hands roamed over her body, cupping her breasts and squeezing them. _Damn, perfect fit, again_. His fingertips traveled down her navel, around her thighs and over the curves of her hips. Finally, when she swore at him and kicked her leg in the air, he parted her and returned the favor. When he left her gasping on the edge she spluttered.

"What -what, _Dean_ , bollocks, finish this."

"Patience, young Padawan," he said, grinning. He leaned over the bed and dug through his jeans for his wallet.

She dug her hand into his scalp. "You -bugger, _fuck._ "

"Chill." He pulled a condom out and wagged it in her face, before tearing into it and slipping it on.

"Great, now come."

"That's the point."

She rolled her eyes, though her lips were pulled in a smile. She clutched him and drew him close, wrapping her legs around his waist. He leaned in for a kiss and pushed into her; she was hot -hot like _hell_ \- wet and fucking amazing. Better than Rhonda Hurley any day.

Needless to say, he didn't get enough sleep that night.

 

\---

Dean woke to soft hands skirting over his shoulders and a husky female voice telling him to wake up. His skin felt sticky with dried sweat, limbs heavy and lethargic.

"Dean, wake up."

He squinted at the large room, its expensive wooden furniture and French windows. The curtain was fluttering out with the breeze; there were curlicues on the walls. He remembered bending Harry over the dresser for round three and feeling too tired and heavy to do much more than pass out on the bed.

"Oi, stud, focus." Harry leaned over him. "I didn't know at what time you needed to head out to work."

"Shit, Sammy." He tripped himself out of bed, looking around frantically for his boxers.

"Calm down, it's six thirty."

"Six thirty?" He said. He hadn't woken up so early since he tried to sneak out of Mandy Hill's bedroom at four a.m. "Why-"

"Better wake you up too early than too late, yeah?" She said, standing. Her white dress straightened out, hugging the curves of her breasts and falling just short of her knees. Dean's fingertips tingled. She crowded close, smoothing her hands over his naked chest. "How about I go make breakfast while you shower?"

"How about we have round four?" He went to grasp her, but she danced away, laughing.

"Nope, go shower." She walked backwards towards the door, skirt skimming around her thighs. "Loo's to the right. I hope you remember how to get to the kitchen!"                

He grumbled and made his way to the bathroom, showering off the sweat and smell of sex. He could see his reflection on the dark tiles. The tub was an ancient, claw-footed thing, polished and decorated with what looked like real gold. _Damn,_ Sammy would love this place. It had to be the cleanest bathroom Dean had ever been in. He found his clothes waiting for him on the counter, neatly folded and laundered, maybe even dry cleaned. Thank God for rich people. He dressed quickly and sauntered out. Some sneaky maid had changed the sheets and made the bed, leaving his boots lined neatly by the Persian carpet. Dean was starting to get uncomfortable with all the invisible help, he half expected a French maid to step out of the shadows and help him with his boots.

"Creepy," he said, and left the suite in search of food.

 In daylight the corridors looked different, less warm and more elegant. The floor beneath him was hardwood, the walls lined with paintings. He wondered how Harry could live there, with all the echoing empty space. In the distance he could hear the piano playing.

"Hello, Dean."

He jumped and nearly stabbed Luna with a knife he'd stashed in his boot. "Jesus, Luna."

Her dazed eyes locked on the knife before turning towards him. "I'm sorry if I startled you."

Dean slipped the knife back into his boot and shrugged. "No harm done. I didn't know you were staying here." He stood tense, waiting for her to freak out and threaten to call the cops. But she seemed to completely forget he'd held her at knife-point.

"Oh yes. But only till today, I'm afraid." She led him through the maze of corridors and down the main staircase. "I was thinking about getting Harry a pet to keep her company. Her owl died, you see, a couple of years back. She'd do well with another pet."

Owls as pets? Damn these girls were weird. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and decided to play along. "Don't get her a cat. I'm allergic to those."

Luna shot him a smile, a creepy, knowing smile. "A puppy then."

Puppies shat everywhere, but Dean didn't say that. At least it wasn't a rabbit. 

Once they reached the kitchen the smell of cooking bacon hit Dean like a semi. His mouth watered.

"What about puppies?" Harry asked. She stood by the stove, flipping over pancakes.

"I was thinking about getting you one," Luna said, taking a seat at the table.

Dean floundered in the middle of the kitchen, unsure if he should sit down or try to help Harry. He'd never stayed over after a hook-up; he was always the one who snuck away in the middle of the night. Sleeping over and having breakfast the next morning was new territory for him.

"Take a seat, Dean," Harry said. She seemed cool and content, not at all as awkward as Dean felt. Once he'd sat down, she put a plate in front of him: eggs, bacon and pancakes. This girl was perfect. "Coffee?" she asked.

"Yeah, black. No sugar." He dug in with a relish reserved only for pie, and when she placed a mug to his right he felt like kissing her.

"Luna, don't get me a puppy," Harry said. She sat next to him, warm leg bumping against his own. "They shit everywhere."

Dean huffed a laugh. "You could get a fish."

"Boring."

Yes, definitely perfect.

 

\---

 

In the end he left around seven thirty, after a massive breakfast and multiple cups of coffee. He'd helped Harry do the dishes, leaning on the counter with the drying rag, flirting with her as she scrubbed. She'd blushed and stammered, but had given as good as she got, needling him with innuendoes and a mischievous grin. Dean wasn't used to easy banter with a girl without ulterior motives, but somehow with Harry it was easy, simple. She wasn't awkward and she thought like him; there was none of the clingy emotional baggage hook-ups usually brought. They talked about nothing but inane things: puppies, pets, brothers and friends, but by the time he left he felt he knew her. Harry was a kindred spirit.          

She'd blushed when he'd kissed her one last time. Her hands clutched his shirt. The Impala gleamed behind her in the driveway, just where he'd left it. 

"I was wondering if you'd like to have dinner tonight?" Her eyes were bright and hopeful. Dean found himself wanting to say yes. "You could bring your brother."

"Kinky." He grinned as she rolled her eyes. "I'll let you know. What's your phone number?" He pulled out the clamshell phone Dad had got him for his birthday and flipped it open. Huh, no signal.

"I-I don't know it." She made a face. "I don't mind if you just show up, or not. But if you _do_ decide to show up, come around seven?"

"Yeah, I'll -I'll try to make it." He reached over and tucked a flyaway strand behind her ear. "Catch you later."

"See you."

Once in the Impala, he winked at her, and headed out. The leather seat was searing from the sun, the wheel warm in his hands as he made his way back to Salem. Half-way there his phone pinged, once, twice, three times. Probably Sam. Dean felt a little guilty for leaving the kid to spend the night alone in the motel room. But he had his salt lines, Dean had triple-checked them before leaving, and Sammy knew how to protect himself if worst came to worst. He stopped by a Dunkin Donuts on the way back to the motel, picking up a couple of bagels and a cup of coffee for Sammy. Let no one say he didn't take care of his brother.

The kid was waiting for him on the curb, patented bitch face spread all over his features.

"Dude, where have you _been_?" He whined. Stomping around the car, he folded himself on the passenger seat and plopped his schoolbag on the floor. With a mumbled thanks he grabbed the food and the coffee. 

"Sorry, man. Got distracted," Dean said, heading towards Sam's school. "You won't believe the girl I hooked-up with-"

"Ugh, dude no. I don't want to know."

"Sammy, her house was huge, three-stories or something, real fancy-like."

"Oh my God, Dean, you're such a hick. Just shut up." He frowned and leaned towards the dashboard. "is that... her underwear?" With two fingers he picked something from under the windshield: Harry's purse. "Ew, did you do it in the car? Am I going to find her bra in the backseat?"

"Jesus, calm down, Samantha. It's just her handbag." He watched Sam flick the purse into the backseat. "She invited us for dinner later."

"I'll pass. I'd rather not watch you play footsie with some bimbo -oh, don't look at me like that, we both know you don't go for smart girls."

"I'll leave the unibrow and braces to you," Dean said.

"Ha-ha. But seriously, Dean, it's Friday. My friends are having a party later."

"A party," Dean said, skeptical. He parked the Impala across the street from the school. It was still half an hour early; he watched the nerds and teachers walk around the campus. His brother was such a geek. "Do you have supplies, holy water, silver knife, gun-"

" _Yes_ , everything," Sam said. He picked up his schoolbag and chugged the last of the coffee. "And don't come by later, I'm going with Tim to his house."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Remember to call."

Sam made a vague dismissive motion and left the car, slamming the door a little too hard for Dean's taste. In retaliation he cranked up the volume, speeding away with Metallica blaring from the stereo. He made it to work early, and spent the morning working on a 1956 Oldsmobile convertible. It was a beautiful car, done in bright cherry red. Not as awesome as his Impala, of course, but he enjoyed working under its hood, tinkering with the antique engine. He took a break for lunch, sitting in the Impala with the door open, munching on a sub while checking the newspaper for any local hunts. When his phone rang, he stared at it, wondering if it was Harry calling about dinner. The thought made him nervous; he felt like a fumbling fifteen year-old.

"Hello?"

" _Dean."_ Oh, Dad, of course. He hadn't given Harry his number. " _Everything Ok back there?"_

_"_ Yes, sir. Everything is fine. Bobby's friend has me working on an Oldsmobile. How's the hunt?"

" _Damn werewolf got away. You'll have to stay put for another month. How's Sam?"_

"He's all right, bitching, like always. Do you need back-up-"

" _No, take care of your brother. Don't you dare come out here, that's an order."_

"Yes, sir."

" _Take care, son."_

"You too-" Dean said, but Dad had already hung up. With a sigh, he pocketed the phone and leaned back. He felt worry gnawing at his insides and loneliness pressing around him. Dad was on a hunt -like always, and Sammy, who used to be around for Dean to take care of, now spent more and more time with his friends. They talked about college applications and lives Dean could never reach or be part of. He wondered if Sammy felt as lonely as Dean did whenever his brother talked about his normal life, his life without his family, the comfortable weight of a gun in his hand, or the adrenalin of the hunt. Dean knew the kid was preparing to leave. He'd seen the SAT prep books, the college application forms scattered over the chipped Formica table at the motel. Sitting alone in the Impala, Dean felt ridiculously abandoned, forgotten almost. His family moved on with their lives, while Dean stayed still, depending on people who didn't depend on him. When his lunch break ended, Dean rubbed his neck and went back to work, trying his best to forget. His dad hadn't raised him to be a whiny bitch.

He left work at six, the Oldsmobile finished and running like a dream. He gave Sam a call once he made it back to the motel room. The kid had answered all his questions in monosyllables, yes, no, maybe, fine, and a particularly memorable: 'I'll be there when I'll be there.' Dean hadn't done more than sigh before taking a shower. The motel bathroom had felt like a truck stop compared to Harry's shower. There was grime in the corners and chipped tiles on the floor. No wonder Sammy hated it. Once he was done he slipped on a change of clothing and headed out. He felt like a beer, maybe something stronger. His brain dragged up a memory from last night, Harry's cheeky smile, her gleaming kitchen and the bottle of Firewhisky. Her purse sat in the backseat of the Impala, a glittery, beaded thing he could see from outside.

His lips twitched as he slid into the driver's seat and headed out of Salem.

At least he was getting dinner where he was going.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dean freaks out, Sam is a whiny teenager and signs of plot start appearing in the horizon.

It was a Saturday, two weeks into October.

The neighbors were having violent and acrobatic sex against the wall. Each thump shook the frames of the building, making the furniture creak. Sammy had upped the TV volume to the max, and every time Jerry Seinfeld spoke Dean swore his teeth rattled. He rubbed a hand over his face and glared down at the newspaper clippings on the table: three dead in Hampstead, a teenager and two bums; rumors about a haunted house. Dean had seen more creative stuff, but he'd take it. He'd been going out of his mind without a good hunt to loosen his muscles. The only problem would be getting Sam on board.

"Sam," Dean said. No answer. The kid didn't even turn from the TV. "SAM!"

"WHAT?" Sam lowered the volume; a throaty moan immediately cut through the room. He turned around on the ratty couch, hair flopping over his eyes. "What?"

"Haunting in Hampstead," Dean said, "huh, that's got a ring to it."

"No." Sam turned back towards the TV.

"Why not? It's right there. A friggin salt-n'-burn. We've done that a thousand times."

"Dad said not to leave the state. Hampstead isn't in Massachusetts," Sam said.

"What?" Dean pulled a road map closer. He traced the state line, feeling the worn paper under his fingertip. Sam was right; how did that kid know everything? "Whatever, man. It's just an hour and a half away. Dad won't know."

Sam threw him a look. "He will. Besides, I've got a test on Monday."

"Well I don't see you studying," Dean said.

Bitch Face Number Five came into view, the one that said:  _you're such an asshole, Dean_. Sam fixed his eyes on the TV, arms crossed and emo hair all over the place. He lifted his legs, clad in the torn jeans Dean had bought for him at Kmart, and banged them down on the coffee table.

A chorus of staccato cries echoed throughout the room, thrumming to the tempo of Dean's headache. Harry's moans had been softer, her voice lower and real: gritty, almost. He remembered the perfect, little 'o' her lips made, the way her cheeks hollowed, the stain of her hair on her white pillows. He wanted to smooth his hands up her thighs, lick-

-A sigh whistled through Dean's lips.

"Sammy, please."  _I don't want to think about her anymore._

"Dean, I don't want to. Can't you just leave me here?"

"Sam," Dean said. Richard Hill's face looked up at him in grey and white newsprint. He was a kid, barely fourteen, with braces and a dent in his head. In another news clip, the same boy smiled at him. "Three people are dead," Dean said quietly, "we can stop this."  _Distract me._

Sam stayed quiet for a long while, immobile. Dean had to check once or twice to see if he was breathing. "Fine." The kid turned off the TV and stood, hands in his pockets, glaring at everything. "Fine. If we go now we can be back by tomorrow."

Dean had to make an effort not to whoop.

\---

"What happened-" Sam started, and Dean  _knew_  he wouldn't like this conversation. "-To that girl you were dating?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Dean said, digging through Hampstead Library's archives. Dad had this thing were he pretended to be an FBI officer to get information from the victims; it sucked that Dean didn't even own a dress shirt that fit. Instead he was stuck digging through a dusty library with Nancy Drew for company, breathing stifling air and watching golden dust motes dance before his eyes. Dean hated libraries; libraries were just the graveyards of people's thoughts and memories, all nicely embalmed and laid to rest between two covers. Books weren't real, at least not like people were real, people who could wonder over your love life one moment, and turn around and ignore you the next.

" _Dean_ ," Sam whined, " that girl, the one you'd wanted me to meet. You dated her for like, three weeks or something."

"I don't date," Dean said, but it sounded weak and petulant even to his ears.

"I'm sorry." Sam's brow furrowed. His curious look melted into puppy-dog pity. "Did she break up with you?"

"We  _weren't_  dating." He pulled out a manila folder, closing the lid on the cardboard box with enough force to dent it. The calluses on his hands scraped the edges of the folder.

" _Dean_ ," Sam repeated, his voice getting more annoying by the second. "You went out with her almost every night. You took a walk, Dean,  _through the park-"_

"Leave it," Dean said. He hated himself for sounding desperate and wrung out, like some whiny Italian poet, but the newsprint words had started swimming before his eyes, and for the first time in his life he wanted to escape.

A hunter's life wasn't good for relationships -it wasn't good for  _anything_ , and Dean had made his peace with that back when he was four, holding a crying Sammy with trembling arms while ignoring the cake of ash and sweat on his face. He understood what he sacrificed for family; he did it willingly. But something about Harry chewed at him, made him doubt his plans. He'd spent two weeks dazzled by her, amazed by the softness of her skin and the curve of her hip, the splash of red lipstick she wore when he took her out to dinner. She'd seemed like an alien creature, as confident in high heels as she was in work boots. There'd been no jewelry around her neck, none of the dangling earrings his hook-ups usually wore, instead she'd worn a clunky family ring, the stone thick and dark and scratched with a faint image that gave Dean the creeps. She'd been generous with her happiness, lending it to Dean like a small treasure. The tilt of her lips had been intimate and soft.

"We were holding hands," Dean muttered, half for Sam and half for himself. Newspaper stopped crinkling across the table. Dean could feel Sam's heavy stare on his face; he knew what it would look like: judging narrowed eyes with a furrow of curiosity between the brows. The kid didn't understand what Dean meant. "Holding hands is  _bad_ , Sam."

"Bad," Sam said, deadpan.

"It  _means_  stuff," Dean said, trying -and failing, to sound unconcerned. The dusty silence of the library suddenly seemed more oppressive.

"Stuff."

"Commitment, dependence:  _stuff_ ," Dean whispered furiously, "Mom and Dad had held hands, and look where that got him: drunk off his ass, hunting some random shit that will probably kill him." He paused, shooting Sam a look. The kid looked angry, boiling almost, probably because Dean didn't want to settle down and have the shitty apple-pie-picket-fence life Sam wanted. "I promised myself I wouldn't end up like that."

"You'll end up like that anyway," Sam said, low and sharp, full of teenage righteousness. His words slipped through Dean's ribs like a dagger, cutting through his exposed softness without apology. "Because you're just like Dad. You're a hunter, that's all you are. You don't leave space for anything else."

Dean thought about staying up till four in the morning helping Sam with his science project, and the small fund he'd set up when Sam had brought up college for the first time. He thought about stitching Dad's wounds, helping Bobby at the garage for free, about the high school diploma and college acceptance letters in the trunk that he'd ignored because he had an obligation to his family.

He stayed silent.

Under his fingers, the words of the newsprint spread out before him, understandable once again. The paper was dated five months ago, reading something scandalous along the lines of:  _Town Hermit Dies of Mysterious Causes._

They had a case to get back to.

\---

Dean ran around the house, feeling the burn in his thighs and the weight of the shotgun in his hands. The poltergeist threw an end table at him, all glaring, translucent eyes and snapping teeth. Dean ducked, buffeted by a rain of wood and screws. The spirit was an old man, crotchety, with wispy white hair. Alive, he would've looked harmless, as a spirit, the thing packed a nasty punch.

The house was large and dark, shadowed in a way that reminded Dean of demon smoke. The furniture was outdated, almost medieval, large and clunky, made of chipped wood. He scampered on his hands and knees through the kitchen and into the parlor. He was  _caked_  in dust.

"SAM!" Dean shouted, shooting out salt rounds. He could hear Sam stomping around upstairs.

"I CAN'T FIND IT, DEAN."

"Well, fuck."

He ducked under a work-table and reloaded his shotgun. The poltergeist had disappeared for now, but the warning chill still lingered in the air. The thing's breath rattled through the small room. Dean could see sigils on the walls, astronomical charts placed above huge iron pots, stirring rods and jars and vials full of goopy-looking liquids lining the counters. So the guy had been a wannabe potions-maker. Great, just what he needed, more magic crap.

He turned in time to get whacked in the face by a stirring rod, falling flat on his ass. His right cheek throbbed in time with his heartbeat. Spitting out blood, he slipped under a table and sprinted out the door. The corridor was cast in shadows, but Dean caught the sunset from a little window set high above the front door. A pot went sailing past him, nearly clipping his ear. It clanged against the wall, leaving a nasty purple stain.

"SAM!" Dean said. Sam didn't answer, which meant he'd gone up to the attic. It was just Dean and the old fart now. The crowbar was by the front door, leaning just where he'd left it. If he ran out of ammo he could always resort to whacking the creature like a baseball. The poltergeist appeared at the end of the corridor, watching him through sunken eyes. Dean cocked the shotgun.

"Come at me, you son of a bitch."

The old man flickered and reappeared closer, a few steps from where Dean stood with his wide stance and aimed gun. He took the shot, blowing through the ghost and leaving a mark on the wall. It reappeared closer and another shot blew out the glass from a small window.

"Fuck, where are you?" Dean whispered, eyes scanning the corridor. The place had quieted, enough that he could hear his own heart beat. The thing was nowhere to be seen.

"Here."

Before he could turn and shoot, the shotgun was wrenched from Dean's hand. It landed with a clatter at the opposite end of the corridor. No way he could get to it now. He scrambled away from the poltergeist, pressing his back against the wall, hands fumbling for the crowbar, which was just out of his reach.

"You stink of death, boy," the poltergeist said, icy breath fanning over Dean's face. "It's all over you -cloying."

_Ironic, really._

The old man's claw-like hands gripped Dean's neck, almost tearing the skin with their force. They pulled him slowly away from the wall, almost carefully, before slamming him back. His head smacked the door with a hollow thunk, the same sound a walnut makes when it hits the floor. The wood beneath him had dented with the impact, and Dean could fuzzily feel the edges of splinters and wood scraping his hair. He let out a choked shout, something between a call for Sam and a gurgle. His vision swam, full of blinding light and shadows. Two sharp sets of translucent teeth grinned at him. The hands separated him from the wall again; cold air hit his face-

"FOUND IT," Sam shouted, stomping down the stairs. He held a burning pouch in one hand, looking triumphant.

The hand around Dean's neck loosened and finally let go. The poltergeist backed up, turning bared teeth on Sam, before screaming. Fire, slow and glowing, consumed it, making it explode in a shower of sparks and embers.

"Took you long enough," Dean slurred.

He slid down the wall reigning in nausea. Sam crouched down next to him, peering into his eyes.

"You've got a concussion," he said.

"Thank you, Sherlock." Dean tried to roll his eyes, managing instead to slide to the side. Sam's arm caught him.

"Maybe we-"

"No hospitals, Sam," Dean said. "How many times do I have to remind you that-"

"-Winchester's don't do hospitals, yeah I know." Sam's face looked stormy, verging on a bitch face. "Then what?"

Sam was worried, Dean could tell by the little furrow in his brow and the slant of his eyes. Swallowing down bile, he forced himself to man-up. He'd had plenty worse than a concussion before, besides, he was the older brother. Sammy was counting on him.

"We could lay back in the car for a bit," he said, forcing himself up. Sam made a little concerned squeak and scrambled to his feet. "I brought your school bag -it's in the trunk. Maybe later we can celebrate with some chow. What do you say?" Dean asked.

Sam looked doubtful. "Are you sure?"

Dean managed to roll his eyes without incident. He snatched the crowbar and rested it over his shoulder, trying to look casual. "Yes I'm sure, Samantha. Now pick up that shotgun so we can hit the road."

"Dean, you can't drive," Sam said, scooping up the shotgun in his huge hands.

"Guess it's your lucky day then, kid."

\---

Later, after Dean had nursed his head with a cold bottle, they sat on the hood of the Impala, munching on cheeseburgers and taking swigs of pop. Sam had parked on the side of the highway, under a copse of yellow trees now turned shadowy for the night. The stars shone overhead, twinkling peacefully and making Dean uncomfortable. He remembered the last time he'd watched the stars: he'd been with Harry, spread out on the soft grass of her gardens, listening to the gurgle of a fountain in the distance, the swish of delicate trees. He'd felt the last breath of September wind on his face, soft skin on the tip of his fingers. There were flashes Harry's smile, the way her fingers twisted around her ring, the spread of her inky hair against the grass. Her hand had been small and warm in his, for the fleeting moment that they touched.

Then he'd freaked out and run home like a coward. Sam had been sprawled over one of the motel beds, phone jammed to his ear, talking about colleges with a school friend. There had been no distractions, and Dean had been left alone to remember Harry's relaxed stance, both feet heavy on the ground, knees the slightest bit bent. She'd worn a hunter's pose like a badge. He'd kissed her before hightailing, and she'd looked at him with knowing eyes. Water works weren't her style, but he wondered if she felt the same small emptiness inside when she thought about him. It had been weeks since he last saw her. He'd never called her in the end, and now that time had packed up and gone. The small scrap of paper she'd pressed into his hand crinkled in his jacket pocket when he rubbed the hollow between his ribs with his knuckles.

"It's weird," Sam said. His face was turned up towards the sky, hand fiddling with the neck of his soda. Dean forced himself to pay attention; Sam was his brother, his family, while Harry was simply a two-week long hook-up.

"What's weird?" Dean asked.

"That haunting today," Sam said. He turned to face Dean, putting his gangly legs Indian-style. "The guy's house looked like it had been abandoned for ages. Why did the poltergeist only appear now?"

"Sammy, you know this stuff is connected to what happens around the neighborhood. Figured some old lady's pooch took a dump on the guy's yard and pissed him off," Dean said, shrugging. "Who cares? We ganked him."

"I know, but it just seems weird that no one knew the house was there. That's all."

"Look, If there's something you're not sure about we can go back and check," Dean said, hopping off the car. He gulped down the last of his drink and hurled the bottle off into the night.

"No, I burnt the guy's baby teeth so I'm pretty sure he's gone." Sam slipped off the hood, dumping his trash by the side of the highway, before slipping into the passenger seat. He watched his brother start the car. "The guy kept his teeth in a labeled pouch. That's seriously creepy. He had all sort of weird crap up in his attic: eyes in jars and stuff."

"Yeah well, those are weirdoes for you."

"And the house just appearing out of nowhere... I don't know, man. It just seemed off."

Dean shot him a look. "Are you sure you got the guy-"

" _Yes_ , I'm sure. He lit up, didn't he?"

Dean made a vaguely affirmative noise. "You're the one bringing it up."

Sam crossed his arms and looked out the window. The passing scenery was a blur of shadows and green, the headlights made the asphalt look like a dark river.

"Disappearing houses are just weird," he said, huddling into his seat and around his school bag. Figures the kid would cuddle up to his books. "How's your head?" Sam asked.

"Fine." Dean rubbed the back of his head, smoothing over the tender area with his fingertips. "Hurts like a bitch though."

Sam made a humming noise, looking out the window thoughtfully. "Look, Dean, I'm sorry about what I said earlier...I didn't mean it." His eyes had turned towards Dean, all puppy-dog and so fucking earnest. "I want to think I have a chance," he said, voice soft and almost pleading, as if Dean were a god able to grant his wish. The dagger between his big brother's ribs dug a little deeper. "I want to be able to hold a girl's hand, you know, settle down somewhere, get a job."

"You don't like hunting?"

"No -I mean yes, I like hunting." And by the way Sam said it Dean knew it was true. "I like hunting with you, Dean. We should do it more often. I just don't want to hunt for the rest of my life. You have a chance with this girl...you know, this girl who'll hold your hand. I wish I had that."

Dean nodded, "I'll think about it," he said, "now quit the chick flick, bitch, this isn't Oprah."

He could practically hear the kid's eye roll. "You're such a jerk. I don't even know why I bother."

"'Cause you  _love_  me, and I'm irresistible."

Sam, already half-asleep, mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like: "Fucktard." But that might've just been Dean's wishful thinking. The Sasquatch took up the majority of the bench seat, body curled against the window and his school bag, sprawled legs almost touching Dean's. The car became quiet; Sam's small, whistling breaths and the rumble of the engine were the only things he could hear. The street before him was empty and lights were few and far in between, looking like golden islands in the dark. It reminded him of the road in front of Harry's house: all creeping branch-like shadows and shrouded openings in the tree line. Despite all its warm lights, her house had been invisible from the street. It popped up out of nowhere when you where at the gates and almost disappeared when you left.

Weird.

He looked at the passing trees and suddenly wished he could be with Harry. He wished he could touch her skin, share a drink with her at her dinner table, run his hands through her hair and listen to her breathy whispers in the darkness of her bedroom.

He forced himself to stop thinking about her. He and Harry were done; she was a distraction he no longer needed, and there were plenty of other chicks in the chicken coop. Sam was on board with hunting again, which would take up most of his free time anyway, at least until Dad came back. Come morning, he and Sam would search the papers for a new gig and everything would be fine.

Everything would be  _fine._

\---

Sunday morning dawned dark. The clouds overhead felt like a shroud, casting Salem in lazy grey. Dean could almost feel the icy rain from inside the motel room. He snapped the blinds shut and flicked on the light. Better than watching the depressing shit storm outside. The small motel table was piled with math books, spread out around Sam like puzzle pieces. The kid looked like he was researching to end the apocalypse. He kept frowning and twirling his pencil, punching numbers into his calculator. Dean felt a small pang of disappointment. So much for hunting with his brother.

He took a seat at the table, eyeing Sam; he had to at least  _try_  to get the kid out of his study funk. "So that's all you're doing today?"

"Uh-huh," Sam said. He whispered something under his breath and scribbled on his notebook.

"How about later we go out for dinner and look for another case?"

"I can't. I'm meeting my study group at five." Sam looked up, slanted eyes narrowing further as they searched Dean's face. "And we're not going on another case, Dean. I have stuff to do, and Dad said he didn't want us leaving town."

"Since when do you care about what Dad says?" Dean said, feeling hollow. He remembered a time when he and Sam were attached to the hip, when they went around solving small cases behind Dad's back, fist bumping in the car when he wasn't looking.

Sam shrugged, eyes back on the pages of his notebook. "I'm busy, Dean," he said, and went back to punching numbers in his calculator.

Dean nodded, disappointment piercing him inside. He stood and snatched his jacket from the back of the couch, shrugging it on. "Do you need a ride later?" He almost didn't expect an answer. Sam's head was bent over his books, his pencil moving across the page.

"Nah, that's fine. I can take the bus."

Dean nodded again for lack of better thing to do. He headed for the door. "I'm going out then. Call me if something comes up." Sam didn't answer. Dean wanted to hit something. "Remember to keep the salt lines intact. Don't open the door for strangers-"

Sam huffed. " _Yes,_ I know, Dean."

"Fine." He snapped the door shut.

Outside, the cold sunk into his bones, chilling his clothes and skin. The rain was a small, grey drizzle gusting and drenching him. God, he hated Massachusetts.

He climbed into the Impala and simply sat in the chilly silence of his car, wondering where to go. It was a gloomy Sunday afternoon. The bars wouldn't be open till five, and even then, drinking on a Sunday by himself screamed  _sad_. Same thing with getting food. He could eat. But he wasn't feeling up to sitting by himself at a diner packed with families. He wanted company, but Sam had brushed him off and Dad was who-the-fuck-knew-where. He just needed someone-

His phone rang.

"Hello?"

" _Dean? Uh bugger this-"_ There was some shifting on the other end of the line. "- _Right, here we o."_

"Harry?

" _Yes, sorry. I'm just horrid with technology."_ Her cheek brushed against the receiver. " _So how have you been? Haven't heard from you in a bit_."

"Yeah, been busy. You know how it is." He fiddled with the steering wheel, wondering when he'd given her his number. He had a policy against giving girls his contact information, i.e.,  _never_.

" _Well, I'm good, thank you for asking,"_ she said. He could hear the teasing sarcasm in her voice. " _Despite the fact that you clearly wish to get rid of me, I wanted to ask you out for lunch -maybe supper."_

Too convenient. Dean clenched his fists. "If I wanted to get rid of you why would I agree?"

" _You wouldn't._ " She seemed unconcerned.

He thought about staying alone in the car for the rest of the day versus the feel of Harry's legs wrapped around his waist. Fuck sitting around. Harry's call was suspiciously convenient, but good things happened sometimes,  _right?_  He dug around the glove box, stuffing a witch's charm and a vial of salt into his damp jeans.

"Do you need a ride?"

" _Yes, that'd be brill, thanks._ " He could hear the smile in her voice.

"See you in a few," Dean said, hanging up. He ignored the fluttering in his stomach.

\---

He slammed her against the wall, racking up her dress and spreading his hands over the back of her thighs. She was wearing tights, dark silky things that made holding her slippery. Her chest was heaving under the thin cotton of her dress, hands smoothing over the planes of his back. He shoved and pressed her tighter against the wall, resting her on one of the entrance hall tables while hitching her thighs up higher. He rocked against the cradle of her legs, listening to Harry's stuttering breath and the clink of delicate glass and crystal as the table swayed.

They'd never made it to lunch; they'd barely even made to  _hello_. Dean had stepped out of the Impala before she could reach it. He'd taken her face in his hands and kissed her under that stupid Massachusetts drizzle. He'd needed the closeness, the feeling of a human anchor, and when he'd separated his lips from hers, he'd seen the understanding in her eyes. She hadn't asked any questions.

The entrance hall table creaked in warning, its marble surface banged against the wall. The mirror overhead swung wildly, giving Dean flashes of his flushed face and the pearly grey sky outside the window.

Harry's hands grasped his shoulders, she pulled herself up and mouthed at his neck, sucking on small scars and licking a trail up to his earlobe. Gasping, he gripped her hip and slid one hand under her skirt. She let out a whispery moan, hot breath fanning over his ear, and Dean's shiver went straight to his groin. He smoothed his hands under her thighs again, preparing to carry her to her bedroom, or the nearest soft surface.

"No dropping me," she said in lieu of permission.

His hands tightened under her, the muscles in his arms tensing-

"Henrietta Lillian Potter!"

-And nearly dropped her.

He would've flipped out his gun, if his hands weren't already full trying to keep Harry upright. She clutched his neck, blushing and snickering against him.

"Mrs. Figg, so sorry," she said in between small huffs of muffled laughter. "We were just heading upstairs."

Dean craned his neck to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of the other woman. She stood in the corridor that led to the kitchen, hands on her hips and wispy white hair wound in a bun. She looked like someone's batty aunt, with her socks and slippers and the two cats winding around her legs.

"And who might this be?" Mrs. Figg asked, eyes narrowed in old lady suspicion.

"This is Dean," Harry said, "Dean, this is Mrs. Figg, my housekeeper."

"Pleased to meet you, ma'am," he said, because his parents taught him some manners, even though he was still flush against Harry with his hands in questionable places.

Mrs. Figg made an indistinguishable noise. "Don't break anything, those are priceless artifacts you're rutting against. Take it somewhere private," she said, turning on her heel and disappearing the way she came.

Harry laughed against his chest. Her legs clenched once around him before dropping. She slid to her feet gracefully, eyeing him with playful eyes.

"Well that was odd," she said. Her hands were warm, almost burning through his damp shirt. The tips of her hips brushed against his.

Dean tightened his arms around her waist, resting his forehead against hers. He felt weightless, not like John Winchester's boy or Sammy's big brother, but rather like a twenty-year old kid wrapped around a girl with supple skin and bright smiles. Her cheeks were pink, dark glasses askew. He kissed away her teasing smile and burrowed his cold hands under her shirt. She squirmed against him huffing out laughter. Her own, warm hands smoothed down his chest. With Harry, Dean was just Dean. He didn't have to offer explanations or excuses; there were no expectations. He was free.

"Lillian?" He asked, voice low and intimate. He felt a shiver run through her body.

"After my mum."

"Lily," Dean said, savoring it. His eyes slid over the white curve of her cheekbone, the straight line of her nose, the silvery scar cutting though her eyebrow. "I like it; it suits you."

He watched her blush and returned her slow, warm smile, for once not ignoring the fluttering in his chest. He loved her, just a bit, enough to swoop her off her feet and carry her to bed, promising himself to shut up, man up and keep her for as long as he could.

\---

Dean wasn't used to having a girlfriend, at least not one that lasted past the honeymoon banging period. With Harry, there were no lounging weekends spent in bed, arms stretched over the sheets or shared showers. Instead there was activity: a routine, which Dean watched unfold with passive fear.

Harry liked visiting him at work. She'd sit on the hood of the 1969 Porsche 911S he was working under, swinging her boots over the side and populating his life with chatter. She talked about London, its smooth dirty lines and bright lights, neon graffiti in brick corners, buying ice cream on cobblestone streets. Whenever she visited at noon, she'd bring him lunch: a big, greasy cheeseburger and an empty bag of fries. She'd steal his pickles, and read Vonnegut, rounded accent filling out the words, until his shift at work ended. Then she'd drag him down Salem's streets, where they'd walk close together but not holding hands, glaring daggers at the Halloween decorations.

Sometimes they sat in bars, like the night they first met, drinking whisky, beer or bourbon, or swirling brandy in a rounded cup. Dean knew Harry's bedroom like the back of his hand; He knew she was a good cook, that she drank like crazy and hardly ate anything that wasn't deep-fried. Her reflexes were scarily sharp, she liked to try exotic positions in bed, she drooled puddles on her pillow and snored like a dorm room full of boys.

With each little detail Dean could feel himself slotting into place, falling more and more in sync with her and replacing small parts of his life. He still needed the hunt like he needed to breathe, but slowly, he imagined hunting with Harry. He imagined her aggressive stance, the grip of her calloused fingers around a gun, and the idea of having someone that wouldn't leave him.

Just like he didn't want to leave her.

It didn't help that Sam spent more time away, only returning home late at night, reluctant bitch face in place. He'd bang the door open and slouch inside, sulking around the small room until morning. Nothing Dean said seemed to work anymore; Sam wanted things he couldn't help with and didn't understand. So instead Dean spent most of his free time with Harry, drinking and banging, but mostly talking.

Until the full moon, when things started to go balls up.

It started with a phone call and Dad's impatient voice cutting through the line.

" _Dean_ ," Dad said, tightly, right to the chase. " _Where are you?"_

"I'm just heading back." He pressed down harder on the gas, making the dark scenery fly past. "I was out."

" _Where's Sam? You left him alone somewhere?"_

"He's sixteen; he can handle himself," Dean said. He wouldn't be caught dead saying that in front of Sammy. "Besides, he's at a friend's house."

" _Dean,"_ Dad said, sounding gruff and tired. He sighed. His disappointed silence spoke volumes andDean felt his face burn with shame.

" _Your job is to protect him_ -" Dad said after a while. There was some rustle on the other end of the line, the opening and shutting of the cheap motel door and Sam's voice cutting through.

"Sam's back?" Dean asked. He could hear Dad arguing, words muffled but sharp. The hand covering the receiver disappeared.

" _Your brother is raising a stink. Get your ass back here, son. We leave in the morning."_

The phone clicked; the line fell dead. Dean snapped his own phone shut and tossed it on the seat, where it bounced on the leather. The scenery outside was dark, skeleton trees sitting cold and bare at the side of the road. Dean sagged in defeat.

He thought about calling Harry and telling her he was sorry, that the last two weeks had been great, that she'd been great, that it wasn't her but him, and all the other stupid excuses people gave when breaking up. He decided against it. Harry didn't deserve some half-assed excuse; she deserved the truth. She was badass enough to take it. If only Dean had had the balls to give it to her.

His hands tightened around the wheel. Two months ago he would've shot himself before  _thinking_  about telling a civilian that he was a hunter. This was exactly what he'd been afraid of: getting tangled so deeply with someone that he wouldn't want to quit when the time came. And it had _only_  been two weeks.

_Fuck._  He was such a moron. Dad would have his ass if he knew. Of course, he'd have to pause long enough in his fight with Sam to notice. That wasn't likely to happen this century. Dean could just imagine the shitstorm waiting for him back home: clenched fists, screaming, the odd projectile -the works.

He slowed his pace once he reached Salem, feeling as if he were driving to his own funeral. The streets before him were jaggedly dark, empty and slick with cold. A pimply teenager stood outside their room, wringing his hands as he watched Dean slide the Impala into a parking space.

"Are you staying in this room...sir?" The boy asked, pointing shakily at the room behind him. His plastic nametag read:  _Kevin._

Dean sighed and went to stand by the side of the car. Dad and Sam's shouts could be heard across the parking lot; it was a wonder people in Connecticut hadn't complained about the noise.

"Is there any way they could... keep it down?" Kevin said, looking terrified. "There were some complaints..." He trailed off uncertainly.

"Sure. I'll see what I can do."

The kid looked so relieved Dean wanted to smack him. "Thanks, man," he said, before scrambling off towards the main office.

Dean took a fortifying breath and stepped carelessly into the room. The first thing he noticed were the guns: they spilled out of Dad's duffle and onto the floor in a heap. The sawed-off was stained with flecks of blood. The Desert Eagle lay in pieces on the table next to a bowl of half-eaten ramen. Dad was glaring at him.

"Dean, where the hell have you been?"

"Out," he said, snapping the door shut behind him. "The front desk is asking for you to keep quiet."

"Out," Dad said, voice dangerously flat. "You were out."

"That's what he _said,_ Dad." Sam shoved his face in front of their father's, angry fists clenched at the sides. Very soon he'd tower over both of them. "Dean has a life. I'm not a child; he doesn't have to take care of me."

"He's your brother."

"So what?" Sam said, "Dean's got a girlfriend now, he can take care of  _her_."

"I don't care about whatever floozy he's been hooking up with-"

"He's serious about her!" Sam said, almost triumphant. "Aren't you, Dean?"

Dean stilled. Dad and Sam had both swung around to look at him, faces eerily similar.

"I..." Dad looked at him expectantly. Dean swallowed tightly and backed down. "It doesn't matter."

Sam looked murderous. " _Yes it does_. You've been hanging around her for the past month! Wouldn't you like to stay longer, till December?"

Dean stayed silent. He  _would have_  liked to stay longer, but they couldn't. They were hunters; they saved people. Monsters wouldn't rest just because Dean wanted to have more time with Harry. There was nothing he could do.

" _Tell him, Dean_."

"No." He met Sam's angry eyes. "We can't stay longer, Sammy."

"WHY NOT?" Sam shouted, pacing around the room like a caged bull.

Dean folded himself into a chair and rubbed his forehead. Every time they had to leave it was the same: there'd be raised voices and Sam would raze the room like a whirlwind. He'd win some and he'd lose some. For once Dean had a preference.

"For the first time in my life," Sam was saying, "I'd just like to finish a semester. Just once."

"Why do you care so much?" Dad asked. His face was ruddy with anger.

"I'm sorry I care about my education,  _Dad_."

"Listen here, you little punk-"

"Dean has a job. I don't understand why you can't just leave us here?"

"I make two hundred dollars a week, Sam," Dean said. He felt so tired. "That's barely enough to scrape by."

Sam reared himself up and let his voice rise steadily with each word. "We've dealt with worse-"

There was a sharp knock on the door, a rap of knuckles that cut through Sam's tirade.

Dean sighed. "That's probably the kid from the front desk again." He watched Dad stomp over to the door, boots leaving tracks of mud on the carpet. "Just tell them we'll try to keep it down."

"Oh yeah, typical," Sam said, voice masking the sound of squeaking hinges. "They send someone over when they hear a little fighting, but who cares if someone's having sweaty monkey sex?"

"-Winchester?" A voice said.

Dean tensed, feeling slimy dread slip down his throat. He'd heard that voice before: low and throaty with a rounded curve around the vowels. The accent was different now,  _wrong_ and open and distinctly American. But he'd kissed that mouth barely an hour ago. His hand snapped through the air, cutting off any words Sam might've said.

"Who's asking?" Dad said, tersely. His fingers clenched and unclenched twice, a sign for Dean to arm up.

Sam's eyes flitted to the bag of guns. With a small nod, he nudged the sawed-off with his foot, sliding it under the table.

The voice on the other side of the threshold laughed mockingly. "Asking? You're the one asking, sugar. Word on the grapevine is you've been lookin' for me."

"And who the fuck are you?" Dad said, stance melting fluidly into hunter mode.

An invisible force pushed all two hundred pounds of John Winchester across the room, slapping him against the wall like a shoe grinding a bug into the pavement. The shotgun in Dean's hands twitched, almost sliding out of his slack grip. Harry -the Harry he'd kissed and slept and laughed with- stood at the doorway, hands on her hips, bootlaces undone. Her stance was different: body relaxed and arrogant.

Dean couldn't recognize any of the expressions on her face.

"But since you asked so nicely." Green eyes flitted black. "You can call me Meg."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone gets their ass kicked, someone finds what they were looking for, and Sam continues being a whiny teenager.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this, an update? Yes, it is. Feast your eyes. I'm not great at updating, as you may all notice. However, I promise I won't abandon this story.
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to Harveste, to whom I promised this update way back in March. Would you believe me if I said I confused it with the other month that starts with 'M'? 
> 
> P.s I threw in some not so obscure literary references. Kudos to whomever can figure them out.

There was something in Dean's throat that wouldn't let him breathe. Every casual move demon-Harry made felt like a punch to the sternum. Her smiles turned his stomach; the tilt of her hips filled him with guilt. Dad was stuck to the wall. His arms were bound and his chest was heaving. He kept giving Dean that pointed glare, the one that said: shoot her, dumbfuck.

But Dean couldn't, because it was Harry.

"Meg?" He spat, desperate. He could see the strain on his father's body, the beads of sweat that stung at his eyes. Bravado had always been Dean's back-up. "What sort of shitty-ass name is that?"

Meg looked at him through Harry's eyes. She seemed amused. "Cool down, Junior. I'll deal with you later."

She flicked her fingers and he went flying, overturning the table and slamming against the wall with a thump.  An invisible force kept him up, pressing into him like a steel band across his ribs; he could feel his skin stretching as gravity tried to pull him down. The tips of his boots didn't reach the floor.

With sweaty hands, he fumbled with the shotgun's grip, hooking his finger around the trigger in order to keep it in his grasp. He could see Sam hunkering down behind the overturned table, trying to fold his body into a small ball. The poor kid looked about ready to double himself: staring at Dean with a clammy face. His eyes flickered to the shotgun and back, but Dean turned away.

Meg gave him a small smile.

"Now Mr. Winchester." Her eyes snapped towards Dad. She placed a hand on her hip. "A friend of mine said you were looking for me."

"You demons are all the same to me," Dad said.

"Are we?" Meg laughed and Dean couldn't help bucking against the invisible restraints. Her laugh was just like Harry's. "Is that why you were asking specifically for a Duke of Hell? Oh, John. If you want to make a deal all you need to do is ask. We'll send out our best -our brightest, just for you." She eyed Dad's reddening face with a patronizing smirk. "But somehow, I don't think that's what you're after. Let me guess... You want to know who killed your wife?" She rolled her eyes. "John, John, John, after all these years, you're still pining after that barbecue?"

"Why don't you come say that to my face?" Dad spat, eyes looking wild.

Dean flicked his gaze towards Sam, staying any stupid decisions with a look. The kid looked murderous, but thankfully his ass was parked on the floor. If worst came to worst, Dean still had the shotgun.

"And step on the Devil's Trap under the carpet?" She cocked her hips. "I don't think so, Papa John."

"What do you want then?" Dad asked.

With a little twitch, Dean fixed the nozzle of the sawed-off so that it pointed towards Meg. He could feel his hand trembling from the strain, soft flesh digging against the plaster and the grip. One shot and his hand would be pulp. But one shot would be all he needed.

Meg spread her hands. The laces of Harry's boots tapped against the floor as she circled the carpet. "Just want to end it," she said. "You've had a good run, but it's about time you retired, old man." With a clench of her fists Dad started choking, chest heaving and eyes bugging. The heels of his boots dug into the wall, leaving tracks of mud and spreading cracks like veins. "Don't worry, we'll take care of your kids. Dean's quite the looker, I'm sure we could find some use for him. And Sam... well he has potential."     

Dad's face twisted with hate; the skin under his beard was turning red. They'd been through demon attacks before, skirmishes that ended with broken bones gained by hightailing and some civilian's trashed living room. But Demons had never come to them; they'd never followed them home and caught them with their bellies up. Now Dad was choking to death and Dean was pussyfooting over the trigger. Bile lodged itself in his throat; he tightened his grip on the gun.

"You're going to shoot me?" Meg looked at him with Harry's eyes. Behind her, Dad gasped in relief. He sounded like a drowning man. Meg sauntered closer, hips swaying. "While I'm wearing this? Tut-tut, Junior, and here I though you actually liked this piece of ass."

Dean grit his teeth and watched Meg smooth her hands down Harry's arms, she slid them up her hips, fingertips catching the hem of her shirt, pulling it up to reveal a pale stomach and a silver scar above a hipbone. Dean had kissed that scar, he'd licked and made love to it while Harry laughed somewhere above.

He wanted to kill that demon.

"Personally, I quite like this meat suit." She cupped Harry's breasts and squeezed. "It's nice, and so strong. It feels like I'm riding an electrical current; there's something buzzing under my skin." She shivered. "You sure know how to pick 'em. All these secrets... I'm guessing she hasn't told you about the ex-husband?" Meg smiled, all nasty knowledge and curling lips. She crowded close to Dean, fingering the edges of his shirt. "I hate to break it to you, Junior, but you're trailer-park trash without the trailer compared to him. He has what, three -no, four titles? Houses all around the world. He was crazy about her, too." Black eyes fixed on Dean. They seemed oddly still, shimmering along the edges with some indefinable emotion. His finger tightened around the trigger -not pressing down, but a present threat in his mind.

When she spoke, her voice was a grating whisper, "But he had to cut her loose. Your girlfriend is trash, just like you-"  

She stopped, eyes wide and chocking on her words. "What-"

The tight bands holding Dean up splintered and broke; he hit the floor on his feet. Dad grunted from the other side of the room and Dean heard the cock of a gun and the click of the safety latch.

Harry's face seemed strangely still. She clutched her head, stumbling backwards with jerky movements, knocking against the table and overturning a chair. When her heels touched the carpet she gave a full-body shudder and fell to her knees.  

"Shoot it!" Sam said. 

Dean's hand twitched around the sawed-off. He kept his eyes on Harry's pale face, on the black and green flicker of her eyes. Dad's gun was cocked at the back of Harry's head, just on the edge of Dean's vision. He knew Sam wasn't talking to him.

Dad grunted, lowering his gun. "Won't do a damn bit of difference," he said.

Dean let out a rushing sigh. He felt weak all over, shaky in the absence of pounding adrenalin. He watched Dad right a chair and take a seat, flipping through his journal.

"What do you mean, it won't make a difference?" Sam asked. He hadn't turned away from Harry's shaking form.

"It's a demon, kid. Shooting it will only hurt the girl," he said, all gruff impatience. "Right now it's trapped and powerless. We've got to exorcise it."

Dean thought back to all the things he'd heard about demons: salt kept the supernatural out, Dad's training had drilled that in, and when in doubt mutter 'Christo'. Anything that flinched at Jesus' name was bound to be cooky.

"Devil's trap, is it?" Dean asked. Harry's body reared at the words, acting like a skittish, blind animal. A sheen of sweat popped on her skin.

Dad nodded. "Pentagram with protective Christian symbols. Traps them like nothing else." He found a page on his journal and dragged his chair over to the edge of the carpet. Harry turned to look at him through sweaty eyelashes.

"Wait, you had to draw it, right?" Sam said, stepping forward, eyebrows twitching. "Under the carpet."

"Course I did, boy."

"Then you knew it would come. You planned this out!" Sam said, voice escalating. "This was a trap the whole time."

Dean stilled and waited for Dad's answer. No way Dad would endanger them like that: pulling them into a hunt they knew nothing about.   

"It was necessary."

Dean's stomach dropped.

Dad pulled out a flask, splashing Harry's face. Her skin sizzled and smoked. She scratched at it with short nails, eyes leaking unto the carpet.

"Wake up, demon," Dad said. He sprayed her some more, watching her convulse as if it were on TV, not up close at his feet. "I know devil's traps don't weaken you that much, so cut the bullshit."

She stared at him with a blank, smoking face. "Fuck you, John," she said. The words sounded as if they'd been dragged out of her throat by force; Meg's accent. Until her head snapped back and her eyes flashed green. "No, fuck you, Meg."

Harry. That was Harry's accent.

Dad reared back. "What in the Hell?"

Dean took a step forward. He'd never seen a trapped demon before, but he reckoned most of the hosts didn't put up as much of a fight as Harry. He felt a surge of affectionate pride on top of everything else. This was _his_ girl: the ass-kicker.    

"She's fighting it," Dean said. He watched her shake on the round carpet, muscles tensing while sweat dripped down her nose and drenched her shirt. "We need to help her, Dad!"

"We need to question it, Dean."

The world stopped. With shaky limbs he turned towards Dad, staring at the hard line of his lips.

"What?" Dean asked. 

Dean's clean trust in Dad suddenly splintered and cracked; he felt the fracture like the pain of a breaking bone, the crunch of his hero-worship on the sidewalk. He looked back at Harry.

She stared right back.

Sam rushed forwards, fists trembling at his side. "You can't just torture someone," he said, with enough outrage to end world hunger.

Dad sighed. "I don't want to torture no one, boy. But this here demon has information that we need." He sprayed more holy water onto Harry's face. "Dean, take your brother for a walk."

"I'm not going to just take a walk, Dad," Sam said, crouching by the carpet. The tips of his fingers sunk into the fuzzy edge. "You can't do this."

"You seemed mighty keen on shooting the girl just a minute ago."

From the corner of his eye, Dean saw Sam redden; he didn't give a fuck. A trickle of blood left Harry's nose. Her eyes were blank, neither telling nor asking. He felt strangely calm. 

"Dad," Dean said. The voices stopped. "Please don't hurt her." 

Dad frowned. "Dean-"

Dean tapped the sawed-off against his thigh. There was something hard on his face.  "I said no." He picked up the journal from the floor, scanning through Dad's shitty cursive. A Latin exorcism; basic stuff. His Latin was crappy, but serviceable.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus."

"Dean," Dad said, in his gruff soldier's voice.

Dean kept going, moving so that he was out of Dad's reach. He could feel the burn of Harry's gaze on his face: demon black and grass green. He could see the whites of her eyes when she was human.

"Dean. Listen to me, boy."

Harry's limbs shook, veins crawling up her grayed skin. She tried to reach the edge of the circle, fingers ghosting over Sam's hand, before retracting with a hiss.

"Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine."

Harry keened.

Dad stood up, plastic motel chair falling dead behind him. He clutched his clunky Glock tight. "Dean, have you any idea how long it took me to get this demon?" Dad said, loud and rough. Dean could taste the desperation in his father's words. But Harry was writhing on the carpet, blinking darkened eyes and gnashing sharp teeth. Blood was seeping out of her mouth.

"He can't stop, Dad," Sam said. He was standing next to Dad, holding down the hand carrying the G30.

Kudos, Sammy.

"This is the girl," Sam said, just as Dean stumbled through: "Terribilis Deus de sanctuario suo."

"The girl I was telling you about, Dad," Sam said earnestly. The kid had that look down pat. "Dean's girlfriend. Don't hurt her."   

Dad was shaking, and Dean didn't have the balls to look up. He kept his focus on the journal, on the soft leather at his fingers, on Harry's gasping face. He watched her get on all fours, hacking on the carpet. It was unattractive, but Dean had seen worse; he didn't have to remind himself that this was the girl that smoothed his hair when he placed his head on her lap, the girl that roughhoused with him in her delicate living room. This was Harry coughing up blood and tears.

"Benedictus deus," Dean said. He heard Dad growl something unintelligible. Harry stilled."Gloria patri."

A torrent of black smoke pushed itself out of Harry's mouth, bending her neck at an impossible angle. Dean had seen demon smoke before, what Hunter hadn't? But up close and personal the smoke was darker than in the pictures: thicker, like 3-D brushstrokes slamming into the ceiling. Dusty ash rained down, darkening the area around the devil's trap.  

When it stopped, Harry closed her mouth and crumpled onto the carpet, eyes glassy.

"Mr. Winchester," Harry said, voice wrecked but blessedly hers. All eyes turned towards her. Dean was the only one smiling. "Er -John. Just so you know, I don't make it a habit of hosting demons. Ghastly first impression."

Dean's smile widened into a grin. It was easy to ignore the scent of sulfur and irony blood; he had years worth of practice. With a gentle hand he helped her stand, catching her as she swayed.

"You OK?" Dean asked, scanning her face. There were flecks of blood around her mouth and shadows in her eyes. The grey-tinge of her skin had lightened to a deathly pale. 

"I'm fine," she said, grip white-knuckled on his arm. He could tell she was lying.    

"Dean," Dad said, eyes wild. "Outside, now." He picked up the gun bag as well as his duffel, slinging them on each shoulder. His boots made the foundations shudder as he stomped outside.

"Sammy," Dean said. But Sam had already moved to Harry's other side.  

Kid was quick with the ladies.

Sam cupped Harry's elbow, Sasquatch hands swallowing half her arm. He wore his bashful smile.

"Hi. Harry, right?" Sam said. He sat Harry on the bed and shook her hand. "Sam, pleased to meet you."

Dean watched a small smile blossom on Harry's face; he could trust Sam to take care of her.

Outside, he found Dad by the bed of his truck, arms braced and face hidden in shadow.

"What in the Hell did you think you were doing in there, boy?" Dad asked. His eyes were red-rimmed.

"Saving people, Dad. It's what we do." Dean knew he was being mouthy, and Dad wasn't one to stand being disrespected.

"You think this is a game?" Dad turned, jaw-locked and crowding into Dean's space. "That hunting is just some cool sport you can show off to your floozies?"

"No. Dad, I would've done the same thing regardless-"

"Really, boy? What would you have cared if the demon had possessed a trucker, huh?"

"It's not -Dad, you can't just torture people!" Dean said.

Dad's lips thinned. "It was necessary," he said tightly. "There are bigger things at work here: dangerous things. I needed that information, Dean. Family _always_ comes first."

"And no one got hurt!" Dean said. He could feel a lump of something resting in his throat. Why didn't Dad understand?

"You chose that girl over your father," Dad said.

"No, I didn't! Harry didn't deserve it," Dean said, "she's a good person."

"So was Mary," Dad snapped. He looked like he was about to burst a blood vessel. "You don't know what you have in your hands, Dean, she could've invited the demon in; she could be a witch. Think with your _brain_."

"She's not a witch; I trust her," Dean said. He could see the twitch in Dad's eye, and the clench of his fists. Dad wouldn't give an inch. Weariness sagged Dean's shoulders. Things had always been fucked up in his family, but he'd always been able to trust Dad. And now... "It's saving people first, Dad, hunting things second," Dean said quietly. He couldn't meet Dad's eyes, but he could feel the burn of his gaze.

"You and your brother can take a breather," Dad said, pushing past Dean. He climbed into the driver's seat, stomping so hard the truck shook. "I'll come back in a couple of months, when you've gotten your head back on straight." He eyed Dean with his hands gripped around the wheel. "Take care of your brother."

He slammed the door in Dean's face and drove away.

Well fuck you too, Dad.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Dean headed back into the room. He could see Sam framed in the open door, the sawed-off he'd dropped on the bed and the chunky pool of blood staining the carpet.

This was gonna be _damn_ hard to explain.

"I packed our stuff," Sam said, wearing Bitch Face Number Three: _concern_. "The guy from the office came by. He ran off before I could say anything."

_Fucking Kevin._

"We gotta skip." Dean rubbed a hand over his face. It was turning out to be a long-ass night. "Right, pile the things in the car. Harry?"

"She passed out." Sam stepped aside, and Dean caught sight of Harry, limbs akimbo, looking like she'd died.

"Did the-"

"Yeah he saw her." Sam hefted one of the duffels on his shoulder, tucking the sawed-off into his jacket.

"Nosy little shit," Dean said.

He threw Sam the car keys and packed his own duffel in the Impala's trunk. Between them they carried Harry over to the backseat, arranging her awkwardly on the bench.

Sam shifted. "So I was thinking, since it's your girlfriend-"

"-Harry's _not_ my girlfriend-"

"-Maybe I could drive?" He looked down at Dean tentatively, exploiting the full power of his puppy dog eyes. Dean felt a wave of relief. At least the kid looked okay; he wouldn't be able to take it if Sam had been as pissed off as Dad.

One fuck up was enough for today, thank you _very_ much.

"Hell, no. You're riding with Harry, bitch," Dean said. "Make sure she's ok." He swung open the driver's door and sank into the leather. Behind, he heard Sam snap the door shut, laying Harry's head gently on his lap. An indefinable emotion tugged his lips into a smile. He wasn't content or anywhere near happy, but he was glad that Sam liked Harry.

He just wasn't sure _why_ yet.

"So, uh, where are we going?" Sam asked, as Dean pulled out of the parking lot.

"Harry's."

\---

The woods were dark and unlovely, cold with an early winter. He hadn't seen a streetlamp for miles. The dark looked dangerous within the forest: _hostile._ He knew the tingle in his spine well, first from the damp shittiness in 'Nam and later from twenty years hunting things that didn't exist.

He wasn't welcome here.

"What do you think you gonna get done here, Johnny?" Mary asked.

John kept his eyes on the patch of yellow road, feeling the truck rattle under him and his flask rattle in his hand. A vicious part of him imagined the alcohol rattled inside him, too.

"Nothing," he said. His voice wasn't as clear as hers.

"Then why are you here?"

"Still have to try, don't I?" From the corner of his eye he saw a flash of her legs: pale and curled beneath her. He hated it when she wore the white nightgown.

"Stubborn man."

John parked the truck just inside the gravel driveway, as far as the dark would let him without swallowing him whole. He heard the engine pop, and leather creaking as he shifted. The Jack in the flask was cold.

The damn agents had told him where the girl lived: middle of fucking nowhere, creepy woods, Massachusetts. Staring at the driveway he couldn't help thinking that he'd been duped. The line had been scratchy when he called their department; he'd given them a description of the girl and they'd barked the sort of laugh John heard from older hunters. _You're in for a nasty surprise, hunter_. _Don't go up the driveway; she's got wards that could fry a dragon. She'll come to you._   

Fucking wizards. What in God's name was the government doing messing with magicals anyway?  

"That alcohol of yours gonna get you killed one day," Mary said. She turned her head, hair messy like it used to be on sunny Sunday mornings, and looked out the window. She had no reflection.

"Sorry, Darlin'."

"Darlin' my ass. If you die and leave my babies alone, Johnny Winchester, I'll haunt you forever. " She turned back, poking him on the chest. He imagined he felt it: a small pain and the warmth of her finger through his shirt. But she wasn't there; Mary was never there. It was just the alcohol and the loneliness and a little bit of crazy.

"You already haunt me."

Mary looked sad. "That I do," she said and disappeared.

The car was fucking cold.

When the girl appeared, she looked annoyed, wearing boots and flannel pajamas. She slid out of the darkness as if it were a curtain. John hated them types: theatrical and selfish. Bunch of weirdoes.

He stepped out of the truck and onto the gravel, getting smacked in the face by the wind. The girl was pale, like a ghost in the dark. She made a shiver run up his spine.

"You're breaking and entering, Mr. Winchester." She said, politely.

"Am I?" John said. "Looks like an abandoned driveway to me." 

She looked at him pointedly and slipped her glasses up her nose.

"I got your address from the Department of Pest Control," he said, straight to the chase.  "They were real friendly. Said all sorts of things."

"Yes, I reckon they did. Magical Control is always very helpful." Her stance widened. "Nonetheless, you are still trespassing."

He ignored her, leaning against the car. "You have my boys," he said.

"I do," the girl said. She had one of them death sticks strapped to her forearm. "It doesn't seem like you quite listened to the agents."

"Oh, I did. They said you were dangerous." 

She nodded sharply. "Henrietta Potter, Magical Secret Intelligence Service."         

John catalogued her then, with military precision: small, compact, relies on her left side, possible wound on right knee, leaves her flank open -trap, heavy set stance, relaxed and fluid. Trained killer.

"Fancy title you got there," he said. He never knew when to keep his trap shut, that's what Mary'd said anyways. "What's a girlie like you messin' around in the government for?" 

"Misogyny is bad form, Mr. Winchester," she said. A cold wind shuttered through her pajamas. She didn't even blink. "But to answer your question: I was stationed here to keep an eye out for certain war criminals: dangerous men. I suppose I should thank you for terminating one of them. Fenrir Greyback?"

"The werewolf?" He clenched his jaw at her nod. "Wasn't like any wolf I've seen."

"He wouldn't be."  

"Bunch of weirdoes."

"Not the first time I've heard that." She smiled tightly. There was something strong and horrible about the girl. John could see it in the looseness of her stance, and the gritty set of her full mouth; Henrietta was the charade of a delicate girl, all fire underneath. Just like Mary. "Now, pardon me, Mr. Winchester," she said, turning on her heel, "I must reset my wards-"

"What do you want with my sons?" He asked, gruff and loud. No way he was letting the damn witch get away.

"I don't want anything," she said. Half her face was cast in shadow. "Your son Dean is my friend. That is all."

"You expect me to swallow that?"

"You may swallow anything you want," she said, "that's not the reason you're here though."

"You were taken by something dark tonight," John said, falling back into the habit of talking to civilians. Plain folk had to be eased into the supernatural, they couldn't be shoved in the dark and expected to swim.

"Don't patronize me." She tossed her head like an angry bull, annoyed for the first time. Her eyes were glittery in the dark. "You want to know about the demon. Right, 'course you do. Let's hear it, then."

"My wife, she was killed." He clenched his fists, wishing he could just reach into his pocket and take out his flask. Some jack sounded good right about now, some jack and a shotgun. "The demon must've known who done it."

She eyed him. "What makes you think-"

" _Don't_." John could feel his face redden with anger. "Don't you fuckin'..." He took a deep breath. "Magical Control says you're powerful. I saw you fight the thing with mine eyes. You know who killed my wife."

She stared at him.

He wiped the cold sweat on his palms with his jeans. "If that don't convince you, then... I'm willing to deal."           

"I'm not some bloody demon," she snapped. The frosty air crackled around them. "But I'll tell you. On a life vow."

"Fuck your vow!" He stomped his way closer, shoving the girl a step or two backwards. He could see Mary on the sidelines, body flickering in and out of existence. She looked angry and sad. There was a red stain on her stomach. "Almost twenty years," he said, choking towards the end. There were no tears; John Winchester couldn't cry anymore. Instead, he felt the trickle of Mary's ghostly hand on his cheek, and the kisses she used to press against his forehead. "Tell me," he said, voice like the growl of a pained animal.

The girl looked up at him, face like stone. Up close she almost didn't seem human. "For a life vow."

" _Fuck-"_ He hadn't been this angry since Mary...since Mary -or maybe even since 'Nam. "What do you want?"

Her damned stick snapped into her palm. The thing was dark like sin; it looked like a bone. She tapped it to her wrist. "On my life, I vow to tell John Winchester the name of the one who killed his wife, so long as he vows not to include his sons in his revenge."  

John's vision went red. He'd never hit a woman that wasn't a monster, but his fist flew by its own accord, hitting nothing but air and darkness. "My son would never forgive you for taking away his chance for revenge."

The girl stood to his left, glare scarier than all the Charlies put together in his twenties. " _Rubbish_ ," she hissed. And fuck if he didn't see Mary for a minute, spitting fire at him for coming home drunk. "Dean doesn't deserve to be brought into this; he didn't even deserve the life you gave him. Revenge is individual, John Winchester. Stop being a bloody git and get on with it."

"How would you know?" He shouted. "You're just a girl."

"Shake my hand and make the vow."   

She waited patiently while John thought. He could feel Mary's phantom grip on his forearm. The wind sounded like her last screams.

He took the girl's hand. "I won't tell the boys nothing about my revenge, as long as they're in no danger..." He paused. Her eyes were as green as Mary's. "And as long as you don't tell them you're a witch." 

A blue band of light wound itself around their hands, tightening, _tightening_ , crushing their knuckles together, until it dispersed in a shower of sparks. Her hand slipped out of his like water. She was pale with anger.

"You're a right bastard, Winchester," she said. Gravel crunched under her boots.

"I don't want my sons messing with your type of magic."

"Oh, yes very decent," she said, "what about when they're contacted by the DMC? Your sons are hunters, Winchester. They'll either rattle the system enough to warrant an intervention or they'll kill a wizard by mistake and get sent to prison. And trust me, Wizarding prisons are _considerably_ worse than their muggle counterparts." 

"All that's got nothing to do with you telling them you're a witch." He watched her face fall. Shadows licked the downturn of her lips.

"What if they see me do magic?"

"Then you're fucked."

She looked angry enough to leave, to stomp away into the dark and leave him hanging. She'd made a vow; her life depended on it, even. But he didn't trust nobody not to backstab him, and the girl hadn't said _when_ she'd tell him.

"It was a demon," she said, without looking at him. Her eyes were on the lightening sky. "Top tier, quite dangerous. Goes by the name: Azazel. You won't be able to summon him without the appropriate ritual."

He felt something build up inside: a powerful pressure on his lungs, the stillness of his muscles. He'd waited for this moment for twenty years. Finally, _finally._ "Which is?" 

"Not my problem." Her gaze was flinty. "Additionally, you won't be able to kill him with a conventional weapon -and no, don't bother asking. I won't say a word." 

"Do you know what it is?" His voice was a hiss.

"If you'll excuse me, Mr. Winchester. I believe I've said quite enough."

She strapped her wand back and turned to leave. Desperation clawed at him from inside. He _needed_ more. Gravel crunched under his boot, he stretched his hand to catch her, but she slipped away. 

"Tell me."

"No," she said and disappeared into the shadows.

Fuck, _fuck._ He climbed back into his truck, barely feeling the cold seats. The flask shook in his hands. "Fucking bitch."

"Don't be rude." Mary was sitting next to him again, wearing the blue dress she'd worn when he proposed. "She helped you didn't she? Gave you more than you asked for, too. Now you know where to start," she said, braiding her hair.

He started the engine, focus finally narrowing to a target. "Now I know where to start."

\---

November 1999

The first week, Sam couldn't sleep.

The bed was too comfortable, smelling of feathers and silk. The curlicues on the ceiling made him dizzy at three in the morning. The walls were too thick and the house too silent.

He never thought he'd have a problem living in a house, especially one as nice as Harry's. It was what he'd _always_ wanted. And anything was better than living out of the Impala, than waking up to the sound of screaming or cars rattling down the street. Sam hated the motel rooms of their life, with their stained ceilings and dirty sheets. They had thin walls and bad memories. Sam wished he could forget both.

If only he could _sleep_ -

\- but he couldn't. So he snuck out of his room on the second night.

The sitting room was the size of a small church, with a vaulted ceiling and pretty porcelain vases. It had high, crystal windows that faced east and the most massive fireplace Sam had ever seen.

It was only by accident that he found the book, shoved between the cushions of a love seat. It said Calvino on the cover, and _Lily Evans_ on the inside, in round girl-writing. The pages were thin and creased, the print smudged in places, as if someone had read and loved it. He ran his fingers over the ragged edge, and took a seat by the window.

The sky outside was a predawn blue, a deep color that reminded him sleepy nights spent on the road, feeling the rumbling of wheels through leather and the gruff whispers of his brother's voice. Dean always told the best fairy tales.

" _Kublai Khan does not necessarily believe everything Marco Polo says when he describes the cities visited on his expeditions..."_

The night sky lightened as Sam turned the pages: from indigo to a pale grey, shot through with a flash of yellow. Dew crept over the gardens, misting the windows before disappearing at the first signs of orange and pink.

At first, Sam didn't really hear them. Harry's voice was whispery most of the time, as if she'd grown up living in the dark. It was Dean's that stood out: rough even when he was trying to be quiet. It sounded like they were out in the hall, maybe but not really fighting.

Sam wondered if this was how it ended. Sooner or later Dean would push Harry away, just like he'd done with all his other girlfriends. Hunting always got in the way of everything else. Sam was _sick_ of it.

Screw Dean. Harry was too smart for him anyway.

"...true?" Dean asked.

There was a pause; probably Harry speaking. Sam put down the book and slunk his way across the room, winding around the filigreed tables and chaise lounges with the trained precision of the snoopy. He'd left the door ajar earlier, and through the slit Sam could see them: Dean in boxers and a T-shirt, crowding Harry against the banister.

"What the demon said about you being married. Was it true?"

Sam stilled.

His safest bet was to retreat back into the room and pretend he'd never heard anything. But _Christ,_ he was curious. Sam wasn't snooping; it was just hard to curb his inquisitiveness.

"Divorced, actually." Harry's face creased into a frown. "I thought it might frighten you off. I married him a couple of years ago: a mistake. The divorce came through in January." 

"A mistake?" Dean said.

"We split; It didn't work out." She admitted. "I knew about the supernatural and he didn't."

"You know-"

"Yes, yes: demons, werewolves, goblins, what have you. I'm aware," she said, "A bit foolish of me to think that they wouldn't follow me here, though."

"I knew you were a hunter," Dean's voice was whispery, hopeful bordering on reverential. He smoothed a hand up her arm, resting it on the curve of her shoulder. "You look like you've had training."  

"Training? Yes, I suppose."

Her eyes were focused on Dean, hypnotic. She shifted against the railing, somehow closer to Dean yet further away. Sam realized -Sam could _tell_ now. Harry moved like Dad, all contained limbs and flowing muscles. No wonder Dean was drooling after her, she was everything he wanted: a female hunter.

Something dark twisted in Sam's stomach. He'd thought Dean was finally settling into normal, that he'd have a chance, that _Sam_ would have a chance.

What a waste.

Dean's fingers tangled smoothly into Harry's hair, thumb tracing patterns on her bottom lip.  

"I was going to say..." Dean paused. The tips of his ears turned bright red. "I was planning on leaving today, but I don't... I don't really want to." 

"You can stay." Harry's pale arms wrapped around Dean's middle. "Stay."

Dean's silence was thoughtful. Sam knew his brother well enough to know that he was battling between his desire to stay with a girl that seemed perfect and his ridiculous ideas of family unity. _Idiot_. He should know that Sam would rather stay than squat in some dingy hole somewhere.

"I'm sorry about the demon," he said, "we dragged you into it. I guess it would be all right to stay, and... and help you out."

Sam rolled his eyes. Help her out... right. The most they could do was team up and line the house with salt, but with a house that big, who knew? He shook his head and moved back into the room. He'd heard all he needed to know. They were staying.

He picked up the book and started where he'd left off, falling into the story with Harry's muffled whispers in the background. It was only at a sharp knock on the door that he jumped. He could see Harry's profile through the crack between the doors, bright and young and amused. She wasn't looking at him.

"Next time you choose to eavesdrop, Sam, please do so in a more covert manner."

He was _not_ eavesdropping; Sam Winchester did not _eavesdrop_.

Harry left before he could embarrass himself with spluttering.

\---

Staying at Harry's was weird, Sam decided. Nothing had really changed in his life: he still went to school in clothes thinned from washing, Dean still bitched whenever he wanted to hang out with his friends, the SAT's were still lurking around the corner and he had to push his G.P.A half a point up or _else_. But besides that, it was strange to walk around a house where he could hear his own footsteps rather than traffic, where a pretty girl cooked his breakfasts and smiled whenever she caught sight of the ninety-eight's scrawled on his tests. He studied in rooms filled with lights, on expensive desks or on smooth kitchen tables where a rickety old lady kept his cup full of tea. Reading was done in the library, on a stiff armchair tucked in an alcove between the stacks. He spent hours there, pouring over _Lily Evan's_ book. It was short; by rights Sam should've finished it already. But he'd never gotten the hang of post-modernism and he kept trying to find obscure meanings in the words.

Sometimes he hated his brain.

On a cool Saturday Sam sat in his chair, basking in the sunlight from a narrow window. Dean had left for work earlier, sticking his tongue down Harry's throat in plain view for all to see. As if Sam wanted to see him get to second base with their host. _Don't tell me you're uncomfortable with PDA, Sammy. Shut up, Dean._ Harry had blushed once his brother left, licking kiss-swollen lips and excusing herself with a smile. Sam was _not_ asking her where she was going.

Instead he smoothed down the pages of _Lily Evan's_ book and read away the morning.

"Mum sent me."

_What?_ Sam looked around: the library was empty. With heated cheeks he remembered Harry's words about eavesdropping. Sam _was not_ eavesdropping this time. He was just sitting. Sitting was probably within his Constitutional rights.

"Of course she did." _Harry_.

Sam looked out the window, watching Harry amongst the swirls of flowers and overhanging leaves of her indoor courtyard. She sat at her garden table, legs primly crossed, sipping from a dainty cup. A man sat across from her, tall with a shock of red hair and a strange purple suit. He was leaning forward, elbows dangerously close to upsetting the teapot.

"Quite frankly I expected you sooner," Harry said.

"Didn't see the point in it." The man moved back, deftly avoiding the teapot. "Your hand went from _Possessed_ to _Fine_ quick as you please."

Sam frowned, perching himself on the chair's arm to get a better view. _Her hand?_ _What in the-_ In the past week he'd known Harry, Sam hadn't suspected her of a thing. She always looked earnest when she spoke, natural. _Just like Dean._ Watching her sit ramrod straight, with pinched lips and an uplifted chin, he couldn't see a speck of the girl who'd giggled through Dean's kisses just this morning.

"Draco's looking for you," The man said. They'd been silent for a while, both drinking their tea while looking the other way.

"Yes, Neville told me."

"He's set to marry Astoria Greengrass next month. You remember her from school? Small, _blonde_."

"I received the invitation back in August," Harry said. She set her teacup in its saucer, angling it just right. "Don't know what he was thinking."

"They'll have very blonde kids." The man poured her more tea. "Will you go?"

"No. That'll just make things worse."

"I don't think things can get worse -for her, at least. Mum's had Mrs. Malfoy over for tea. The woman hates the girl. She hasn't gotten used to your divorce." 

Sam flopped back into the armchair. Well that was getting boring; he'd never been one for stakeouts anyway. He picked up the book, flipping over to his page and attempting to read, but the words swam in front of his eyes, meaningless. He couldn't stop himself from listening in.

He _was_ an eavesdropper.

" _The Prophet's_ been gossiping again. Draco went to the last Ministry gala alone. They're saying he won't consider Astoria his true wife. His mother certainly won't."

"Why are you telling me this, George?" Harry said. Sam didn't know her well enough to tell, but he thought her voice sounded tight.

"I don't know," George said, "probably because you're as lonely as I am."

Sam craned his neck, looking out the window just in time to catch Harry break her icy exterior with a small smile.

"I'm not lonely anymore, George."

George didn't answer, letting the conversation fall into tense silence. Sam watched Harry sip her tea, hair drifting around her face like an ink stain. After a while he realized that rather than being tense, the silence was simply sad. Sad and longing.

It reminded him of Dad.

George stood. "Best get back to the shop," he said. He extracted a tan envelope from his jacket - _how did that fit there?-_ And placed it next to the teapot.

"Percy looked annoyed when he gave me this. Apparently you don't get mail here. Kingsley relegated him to office boy."

"Did you read it?"

 "It wasn't sealed," George said, giving her a half-hearted smile.

"What is it then?"

"You'll like it, I think: Vampires."

Harry's grin made the bottom of Sam's stomach drop. It was the same sort of grin Dean got at the possibility of a hunt.

"I'll see you out?"

"Don't bother." George waved and left through an archway, heading back inside.

Sam watched Harry sit alone, thoughtfully tracing the edge of the envelope with her finger. She'd dropped the icy facade completely, relaxing the set of her shoulders, slouching a little in the chair.

"You know," she said aloud. Sam frowned. "Covert definitely isn't your default setting, Sam."

She looked up, catching his eyes.

Sam couldn't stop himself from blushing ten shades of red. _How did she know?_

"So what do you think of hunting Vampires?" She asked, arms crossed and eyebrow lifted.

"I- that's more of Dean's thing." Sam called out. _Christ_ , he felt like an idiot.

"What is?"

"Hunting."

She looked at him appraisingly with eyes that made Sam feel like she was gazing at his soul. "I'll ask Dean then," Harry said, standing. She gave him a little wave before heading inside.

_Crap_. Sam didn't _want_ to hunt Vampires.

After that, he watched Dean closely, looking for any signs of extreme hunting-related happiness. But apart from that self-satisfied grin he got when around Harry, there was nothing. Until breakfast, almost exactly a week from the day Sam had eavesdropped on Harry.

She sat across from him at the table, to Dean's right. With a smile directed at Sam, she'd turned towards his brother.

"How would you feel about hunting vampires over that holiday you have coming up, Thanksgiving?"

Dean looked up from his bacon with wide eyes and an open mouth that quickly morphed into a smile. There was love and wonder and surprise written all over his face.

Sam _hated_ his life.

 

 


End file.
